Cannon
by Katiyae
Summary: Maybe it was the freshly unrolled pincurls that got him. Maybe the red polka-dot swing dress. Maybe even the pencilled in beauty mark on her cheekbone. Either way, all Steve really knew was that she was a loose cannon. Thankfully in a world where everything had slipped away, he'd become good at holding on. Rated M for language and maybe actions. StevexOCxBucky
1. 1: Steve

**Slightly AU Captain America fic, as in we have Bucky but SHIELD's still around. To clarify, the powers of my OC are her auras - the red one does harm when in contact with organic matter (works through cloth/armour) whilst the blue one can heal. Depending on how exhausted she is at the use of the blue one, it can expend her own energy.**

**Currently unsure of who final ship will be involving the OC.**

**This is one of the fics that I write in the dead of night, so excuse bad grammar, improper sentence use, and all round rubbish.**

**Reviews, as ever, are much appreciated.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing bar my OC.**

* * *

><p>Maybe it was the freshly unrolled pincurls that got him. Maybe the red polka-dot swing dress. Maybe even the pencilled in beauty mark on her cheekbone.<p>

He watched her from across the room.

She was a vision.

Like one of the old movie stars that he'd left behind and that teenage girls tried to mimic with too much eyeliner and not enough class.

Reclined against the bar, fingers curled lazily around the fluted stem of a cocktail glass, red lipstick a blinding contrast against the ivory of her skin or the dark smoke of her eyes.

Her hair, dark bay, peaked softly at one corner of her brow and then hung around her shoulder in a smooth, curled wave.

And she reminded him of Peggy, and he had to turn away.

The dim lighting smoked out the immaculate red of Natasha's hair, and she arched an eyebrow, peering around her companion. "Who is she?"

Steve shrugged, found that rolling his shoulders back helped his mind uncoil, and repeated the action, cupping the back of his neck with his hand.

Natasha's eyebrow had not yet fallen, and she turned to look up at him. "Well?"

He sighed, short and exasperated. "You know who she is." The redhead had a penchant for knowing who everyone was, regardless of their social rank. She also had a talent for spotting the most dangerous occupants of the room she'd been standing in within two minutes.

But then, that was very much based on the first.

"I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't." Her lips curved up in a smirk, and she leaned in to whisper conspiratorially into Steve's ear. "And depending on where you're standing, she's the most dangerous person in this room."

The male rolled his eyes and folded his arms, hoping that the redhead would go and annoy Clint.

The team had turned out in force for this particular recruitment.

Even Natasha was in high spirits; as she'd claimed, it was 'waving goodbye to baby-Steve' and 'welcoming in adult-Steve'.

As he saw it, it was just a recruitment for the team. She was useful, in whatever way. And whilst he was far too much of a gentleman to tell Natasha to leave, he was praying that she would go so he could fulfill the mission and get back to the History channel on TV.

It turned out that there was a God; after a pat aimed a little too close to his backside and a murmured 'go get her, tiger', Natasha swanned off in the direction of the bar.

Steve lifted his hand to his ear, just about to report his movement towards the subject when the girl broke away. A dark, brooding type had taken her by the hand and was proceeding to escort her towards one of the back doors of the club.

An unwelcome taste of jealousy hit the back of his throat, and he shifted on the spot. All that mattered was the mission. Interference with the subject would be potentially catastrophic.

Maintaining a leisurely pace, he made his way after the couple.

A quick glance over his shoulder caught the eye of Natasha, who nodded once, murmuring into her mouthpiece.

And then he was out into the alleyway. He braced himself against the cold, tucking his hands into his pockets. Voices came from the end; a woman's soft, indifferent reply to a boyish yell.

Steve leant against the alleyway, lit a cigarette, and waited.

It came soon enough, almost before he'd had one taste of the smoke; her voice stopped, and now the male's voice was cold and mocking. He let out a high-pitched imitation of a laugh.

The laugh was enough to make Steve break out into a run, and he sprinted down the alley, spinning around the bend.

His stomach clenched in anger.

The dark haired male had her pinned against the wall, fingers curled around her throat. Her own fingers were digging sharply into his wrist, but to little effect, even though red blood ran down his arms and hers, dripping onto the polka dots.

Steve gripped the man by the back of the head and threw him into the wall behind him. He collided with a sickening crunch.

Sickening and yet oh-so satisfying.

And had the audacity to get back up, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.

He let out a burbled cackle and lunged.

Colliding promptly with Steve's fist, which hit him in the shoulder, sending him spinning off course.

But he had grabbed the girl, and his injured arm was wrapped tight around her throat, so that she was facing Steve, and all of a sudden there was a sleek little black gun in the man's hand and he was pointing it at Steve's head.

"Just think, and I'll be the one to kill Captain America-" The end of his sentence turned into a howl as his arm and face exploded.

He fell backwards, and it was just the girl standing, body emitting a murky red aura.

Her eyes caught Steve's, and there was such fear and loneliness and pain that he didn't mind his own pain as she fell forwards and he caught her, cradling her to his chest like an injured bird.

Between delirious shots of agony, he watched the skin flay off his arms where it touched her aura.

She was shivering, so he pulled her closer.

Watched it flay off his chest.

Natasha always said he had been too much of a gentleman.

When the rest of the agents rushed out after Steve minutes later, that was how they found them.

His raw arms around her unconscious body.

At least she'd stopped shivering.

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: _another one of my late night/early morning ramblings. Work has been tough recently; hopefully I'll get a chance to come back to all of this soon.**


	2. 2: Her

The first thing she noticed when she woke up was the purr of the machines.

She lay there, eyes shut.

Drank in some vague recollection of what had happened.

None came.

Then she opened her eyes, and saw that they had built a prison around her in her sleep.

She smiled. Usually the prison was in her mind, whilst she was awake.

Stopping the aura that trickled out through the cracks in her facade from trickling.

Maybe she'd been flown back to the UK. Maybe she'd been caught. Maybe she was still dreaming.

The soft sheets slipping down her legs as she shifted reassured her that she was far too awake. That was why she didn't lie down, and instead pushed the covers to the bottom of the bed, swung her legs out, and began to try and stand.

At first it was nothing. Her feet tingled, and whilst she could feel her legs, they refused adamantly to respond.

She tried again, pointing and flexing her feet like she'd done as a child in ballet class. The familiarity was vaguely reassuring, at best.

Her head snapped around as she shook off the sedative, taking in the layout of the room. Nothing to distinguish this particular hospital room from being any other. Nothing to distinguish the intent of the party who had her, however.

The cold night air wrapped around her ankles as she pulled herself up, ignoring the odd sensation of walking on nothingness.

Several times she tripped, and would've gone down had she not clutched onto the stand for the drip that was taped in by her elbow.

She learnt pretty quickly to rely on the drip, wheeling it across the floor and following slowly.

The door was a milestone, and she leant against the frame and looked out across the corridor. The wink of a security camera practically waved back, and she ducked her head into the room again.

She'd never really been one for not taking opportunities though, and so, still clinging to the drip, she padded along the corridor, looking in on empty bed after empty bed.

It was the fifth room where she found him.

On his back, one of those athletic, pretty-boy types. And boy, was he pretty. But his skin was too pale, and the muscular torso was hidden under too much bandaging.

A familiar fear settled in her stomach.

She had done this.

She had always been taught to mend something that was broken.

Still clinging to the frame, she padded over to the bed, dropping down onto the side.

The bedside table collection was sparse; a vase of flowers, wilting from too much heat and a signed photograph from Tony Stark.

Great, so she'd fucked up somebody famous.

She began to unwind the bandages on one of his arms, trying not to look too hard at her own mess.

And his forearm was a mess.

The skin had been shaved away slowly; methodically. As if someone had taken a cheese grated and peeled and sliced away, right down to the hard lines of the muscles.

She curled her hand around the mess, ignoring the way that his body jerked and tensed, brow furrowing.

It wouldn't work if she wasn't in contact with the wound.

She frowned slightly; closed her eyes a little to see clearer the blue aura that transferred from her hands to his arm.

Slowly, like a reluctant stream it came. First a few, bare droplets, and then a steady trickle, until a river was rushing through the aura, mending and patching.

When she released his arm precisely a minute and thirty-two seconds later, the skin was healed completely, no evidence of any wound remaining.

She moved to repeat the process with the other arm, and that was when she heard the cleared throat.

There was a stranger in the doorway.

Tall, dark, with some awkward ease. The cropped sleeves of his black tshirt revealed a metal arm, and she shivered despite herself.

But his eyes were what caught her.

So sad. So lonely. So scared.

Her own.

And then a mask came up, and he nodded to her.

"Continue." His voice was harsh; metallic. It made her want to obey, but she hesitated, and this time as she unwrapped his bandages, her hands shook a little.

She'd never had an audience before.

Her fingers curled around the raw flesh, and again the male's body jerked and the man in the doorway made a harsh, involuntary noise, hand jerking to his holster out of habit.

She would've blanched, but the aura was surrounding her hands, pale blue in the dark of the hospital room.

It gave the room an eerie glow, and she glanced momentarily again at the newcomer to see his face lit up by the light, casting distorted shadows and reflections across the metal.

He nodded again, as if thinking that she had needed encouragement, and she was struck by the jerky, skittish motion beneath his actions.

She had thought him to be more graceful, perhaps.

His face demanded a certain feline elegance.

She released the male's arm, moving to what was below the bandages on his abdomen.

She would've recoiled in horror at the sight of the destruction, but she was long used to what her outbursts could do.

She placed her hands, spread from thumb to thumb, across his chest and abdominals.

Fingers drew tiny circles into the fabric of his tissue, blood beading beneath her fingers.

And flinched, because his breathing and the feel of his muscles under her fingertips made something happen to her stomach that she wasn't really sure of.

The aura trickled out around her fingers like an old friend, dancing across the skin of his stomach as it pieced it back together.

Strangely touching, that what she took she could return.

Unlike modern day policies.

The energy was hurting though. She was giving too much.

Mainly because she didn't want him to scar.

Such vanity.

Her eyelids were growing heavy; she swayed softly, and became vaguely aware of the completion of her aura.

Beneath her, the man stirred, and the male in the doorway stepped forwards as she began to fall forwards, folding in on herself.

She had expended far too much energy.

The man beneath her was warm when she fell into his side and his arms slipped around her, whilst the man in the doorways arms were cold when he stopped her from falling off the floor.

But she was tired.

And there were footsteps, people running and talking, and exclamations, and the man with the warm arms speaking in low, rapid tones.

But she was tired.

And the man with the metal arms and the empty eyes was still holding her, almost painfully, pushing her into the warmth but holding her and she didn't-

But she was tired.

And then they were both quiet, but she was aware of the four hands on her, one cold as stone, the other mild, the other two hot like summer.

The darkness that rose like a fog in her brain was a welcome respite.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **_**don't ask**


	3. 3: Bucky

He didn't know who she was.

He didn't really know who he was, still, even though the lady that he spoke to said that it would get easier.

But Steve called him Bucky, and so he stuck with that.

The girl on the bed in the hospital nightgown was beautiful.

He hadn't used that word in a long time.

There was something set about the hard line of her jaw but the soft line of her lips.

The curve of her neck and the straight line of her nose.

The dimples in her cheek but the sadness in her eyes.

He didn't understand what the something was, but that when he was standing above her on the bed after she had healed Steve, he wanted to hold her forever.

But Steve had held her too and he didn't know how he felt about that.

Didn't know if he wanted to feel anything about that.

Or if he was allowed to feel anything about that.

A memory hit him.

Best girl.

He shuddered, metal arm tensing so that it pulled at the skin of his shoulder.

It still hurt.

Maybe she could help.

He wondered what the societal rules were about asking someone for help.

No-one had told him not to yet.

He wasn't sure if he'd care if they did.

Bucky paced to the window and looked out, leaning against the sill with his metal arm.

It was cold against his face.

Maybe too cold for her.

He had been the winter soldier.

Winter was a cold month.

They wanted to question her – it'd been a recruitment drive gone wrong.

Bucky wasn't really sure how they decided who to recruit, but he didn't think he'd want to be on that list.

They'd seen her on the camera footage – something he'd always learnt to avoid – and sent him.

Bucky wouldn't hurt Steve, they'd said.

Bucky would protect Steve.

He had before, hadn't he?

Before he'd found Steve and asked him for help.

Maybe people were easy to ask for help, but Steve was from a different time, like him.

He counted the cars that went past on a street far below.

People going about their daily routine-

And then he checked himself, because he wasn't really even that sure in himself that he knew what a daily routine even was yet.

He flexed, clicking his neck.

Someone was coming.

It was Steve, and Fury, and then someone who lingered behind the two men, and then the woman called Natasha and another called Hill.

He'd thought that was an odd name.

He hadn't asked.

As the people took their seats, he noticed who the lingering one was.

It was her.

Her dark hair had been washed, and hung luxuriantly down her back.

He was aware that his hadn't, and fumbled awkwardly with his hands.

She was taller than he'd thought. Maybe only three inches and a half shorter than him.

Slim build – no room for weapons concealment in the cashmere jumper or the dark jeans unless a knife down the side of the boots-

He stopped himself, realizing that he'd been staring.

Steve said that people didn't really do that in the world. That it was considered rude.

And he didn't want to be rude to a lady.

Steve sat down, but not before holding out her chair, and Bucky twanged somewhere inside.

The emotion was so unfamiliar that his whole body jerked, and he saw the redhead woman cast a suspicious look over him.

The seat next to the girl was open, and he made his way forwards with slow, determined steps, taking the back of the seat.

In his nervousness, he gripped it too hard, and the metal buckled, screeching against his hand.

He released it, staring at Steve.

Steve was the social go-to.

But it was not Steve that answered; the girl smiled, pointing to a lone chair in the corner.

Her smile made the emotion skid through his brain again, and he jerked once more.

Did she want him to sit in the corner?

Bring the chair?

He decided on the former, moving over and seating himself away from the others.

The girl was still facing him, and now Steve was, and Fury was sighing.

So he tried the latter, carrying the chair and setting it down beside her.

Tried very hard to sit down and be still, but his hands were still fumbling.

When he'd been the winter soldier, no matter the situation, he'd been still.

Cold. Calculating.

He forced himself to remember the cold.

His body stopped moving, but he was acutely aware of her next to him.

She smelt like the redhead but not.

The same hair stuff.

But her own perfume.

He licked dry lips, placing his hands palm down on his thighs.

Fury looked unimpressed. He couldn't care less.

"Now I guess we can finally begin..?" He directed the question at Bucky, who curled his metal hand into a fist.

He hadn't expected the anger to flow through him.

Or the warmth of a hand against the cold of the metal.

Still looking towards Fury, the girl had brushed her own hand against Bucky's metal one.

He wanted to hold her.

He wanted to grab her in his arms right there and just hold her.

But he wanted to scream at her.

Wanted to ask her what she was doing to him.

Why she was doing it.

He did none of those things.

Instead, Bucky uncurled the fist, copying her stance of looking towards the director.

She settled her hands on the table.

He wanted to growl under his breath.

Focusing on the job of acquiring information from her would prove difficult.

Steve and Bucky were there only as henchmen. He knew that; wasn't sure about Steve.

Natasha was the worm who got everything out.

He admired the redhead, in some way.

Fury and Hill were there because they had to be.

He did not admire them so much.

The Winter Soldier pressed his palms against his legs and thought of nothingness, but for her voice, as the director and Natasha began their questioning.

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: _ugh don't hate me. Reviews would be so much appreciated, as would favourites and followers. However, I must admit that I do love reviews the most; I like to know what you like and don't like, if you think this story could be improved, etc. **


	4. 4 Steve

"So, Beatrice Vivienne Heath." Natasha flicked her eyes down onto her own set of notes.

Steve rolled his shoulders and relaxed a little more into the chair.

Beatrice was a sweet name. He wondered if she used that or Vivienne in her day-to-day life.

Wondered if it was even her real name.

On the other side of the girl, Bucky sat.

Tense as ever.

Steve cast a quick glance at his former companion.

His shoulders were set, mouth in a hard line.

But his hands were open, flat.

That was new – it was undeniable that his comrade had issues. He usually clenched because it distracted him.

So the open palms struck Steve.

He wasn't sure why, just yet.

"Born to the millionaire M. Heath, raised by his parents after his untimely death in a house fire. Suspicious circumstances, passed over. Grew up in relative safety. Left England on a flight to New York." Fury shuffled the papers, spreading them out across the desk. "Background check completed previous to arrival."

He felt her recoil beside him; noticed moments later why.

An image of two blackened bodies side by side.

A clip from a security camera of a girl surrounded by red.

A house burned to the ground.

He cleared his throat, began to speak. Those images were nothing that a lady should see.

He was a little too old-fashioned for his own good.

Fury raised a hand in his direction to quiet him.

"We have a proposition for you, Ms. Heath." Fury leant forwards, folding his hands together as he fixed her with his good eye.

To Steve's amusement – and it seemed to affect the other members of the room – Beatrice folded her arms, mouth set in a hard line. "Surprise me."

For whatever reason, he hadn't expected her to have a British accent.

Another kick in the teeth that reminded him of Peggy.

His vision shuttered for a moment.

Flashback.

Peggy before he'd taken the serum.

Peggy after.

This time he copied Bucky, pressing his palms down against the rough fabric of his pants.

And then a flashback of a different kind.

Her fingers curled into the mess of his stomach.

Pain.

And then water cutting through the cracks in the pain.

But not water.

Healing and blue, until the pain was washing away.

And her body in his arms as he lay there.

Steve zoned out from the words and lived in the flashback.

She had been cold and hot in his arms.

But Bucky's arms had been around her too.

A life-raft that two dying men clung to.

Bucky had moved in one of the jerky, robotic actions that came when he wasn't the Winter Soldier.

He was looking at her.

And Steve turned to face back at Fury.

Bucky needed more healing than he did.

"We'd like to offer you a trial placement with our STRIKE team."

He felt her shock more than he saw it; her body tensed next to him.

"I'm not sure that that's a good idea." Beatrice tried to laugh it off, but Steve could hear something catching her tone. "I'm volatile."

Steve remembered the pain. The man's face disintegrating.

Skin flaying off his chest.

But then he thought of the fear in her eyes.

The healing aura.

Natasha cuts off his thoughts. "We could help with that. If you help us."

It was the same offer they'd all been given.

An eye for an eye.

A leg for a leg.

Superpowers for super-protection.

"What consists of help, exactly?" Steve almost laughed at her words.

Whilst high levels of protection could be offered, high levels of international fame and threat were also provided as part of the package.

"A place to live, protection from threat, control-based aid for your aura. All in return for your co-operation." The redhead gave an unusually chipper smile. Something didn't feel right.

And that should've been enough to put anyone on edge.

Beside him, Beatrice crossed her arms over her chest.

Her features were composed into a poker face he suspected even Natasha would have difficulty mimicking.

Bucky on the other hand, he wasn't so sure.

"That sounds a little too good cop. Where's the bad cop?" Beatrice glanced between Fury and Natasha, who both gazed back.

Silence settled over the enclosed space for a moment.

It only broke when Hill cast a look at Fury.

He kept on staring straight ahead.

"Fine. Contract agreed."

Steve's head whipped around almost inadvertently.

Her chin was set.

Lips pressed together.

Expression firm.

And Steve didn't know whether to be happy or sad at this new arrangement.

He watched as she signed the papers in a scrawled loop of a signature.

Watched her read through the large print and the small print.

Press a certain issue with the director.

Slide the papers back across the table.

Fury shuffled through them, examining her signature. "Good. Steve and James will escort you to your apartment. Food, clothing and furniture related costs will be absorbed by SHIELD for the first year of your employment."

Steve pushed away from the table, standing up.

On the other side of Beatrice, Bucky was doing the same.

And yet when Steve moved to help Beatrice from her chair, Bucky was already easing the chair back and helping her up.

Jealousy snarled, unwanted, in his stomach.

He held back with Natasha as Bucky took Beatrice to the cars.

"Keep a close eye on her. She's got the apartment in your block; the one between yours and James'." The redhead cast her eyes at the disappearing figure of Beatrice, almost frowning.

Frankly, Steve thought that was a terrible idea, but he nodded his assent, following the pair from the room.

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: _tiredness and essay-stress is terrible.**


	5. 5: Her

The car journey passed with relative ease.

Relative because at one point Steve missed the traffic signals at an intersection and had to swerve to miss a van.

Bucky, in the back seat with her, had slammed his metal arm across her to stop her jolting into the back of Steve's seat.

The seatbelt would've caught her, but she let out an involuntary whimper as the hard metal of his arm hit her in the chest.

Her collarbone throbbed.

Bucky wouldn't meet her eye.

Steve's shoulders were set in a hard line.

She was glad that her healing inclined aura had kicked in at that point.

The skin, although reddened, didn't spring up in a mottled bruise.

Thankfully they'd driven her past the hotel where she'd been staying to collect her things, and she'd shimmied a coat on over her borrowed jumper, zipping it up to flush out the December breeze.

Maybe she'd finally get a proper snowy Christmas this year.

England gave her dry turkey and gray drizzle.

Eventually Steve pulled the car into a bay, and before she could even touch the handle, Steve was opening her door for her, ushering her out the car.

She forced a smile against the chill of the air, tucking her hands into her pockets, turning to the back end.

But the boot was already open, and Bucky was holding her bag as if it weighed little more than a box of tissues.

This time the smile was genuine.

She turned to look up at the building.

It was brownstone, with white accents on the windowsill.

Perhaps she'd be able to call this place home.

Bucky moved past her, tossing the keys to Steve, who laughed and muttered a quick retort that she couldn't quite catch.

He unlocked the door, pushing it open a little so that she could be the first to enter.

The foyer was bigger than she'd expected, with a door down to the basement and shiny rows of letterboxes lining one wall.

Along another wall, the stairs lined the wall.

And opposite, a gleaming elevator.

She made a beeline for the lift, much to the bemusement of Bucky, who'd already started heading for the stairs.

There was no way in hell she'd make those stairs with her collarbone whining every time she moved her arm.

They piled into the lift, and Steve jabbed the button for the 5th floor.

Maybe she'd take the stairs one day when two specimens of the perfect male weren't around.

She smiled to herself as the lift took off.

At an incredibly slow whir.

So that was why they didn't use the lift.

And that was when Beatrice became aware that she was folded into a tight space with two guys.

Two tall, heavily muscular guys.

She shivered, curling her fingers round her elbows.

Realized a little too late that the aura was already glowing, and so the smell of burning fabric crept to her nostrils.

Beatrice flung her hands out into the space in front of her in dismay.

Just when she'd been doing so well.

Behind her, Steve cleared his throat, and she saw him look over to Bucky.

"Hey, we're almost done in here. There's no need to worry, ma'am." The blonde male jabbed the open door button, and Beatrice tumbled out into a small, carpeted foyer.

The walls and floor were done in red, with brassy gold frames for dark-wood doors. There were three in a row, whilst a sofa stretched along one wall in an assortment of Bohemian fabrics.

The other wall had a garish painting attached, with various dartboard holes.

Her aura was already soothing, retreating into her fingers in a peal of golden flames, and she curled her fingers into fists, jerking her head to the painting. "That bad?"

Steve opened his mouth to speak, but Bucky was already talking. "Five points for a piece of fruit. Ten if you hit the stalk."

His eyes, when Beatrice turned around to look, were skittish, but the corner of his mouth almost twitched.

Steve was busy working on a door numbered '39'.

Beatrice walked over, taking the keys that he offered once he'd got it open.

The apartment was bare.

White walls, pine flooring and matching blinds.

The kitchen and living space sprawled in an open plan design, whilst doors leading off were pointed off as the bedroom, bathroom and study.

And the furniture was freaking flatpacked.

In boxes.

Requiring assembly.

Beatrice rubbed her temples with the fingertips of a free hand.

This day had been bad enough.

Now she was going to need to ask for help from two guys who she'd just met and already felt like she was far too much of a burden to.

"Just let us shower and change." Steve clasped his hands together, turning a critical eye around the place. "Right Bucky?"

The dark haired male nodded a silent affirmation, stepping out of the apartment.

"I'm sorry about Bucky… It's been a stressful few days. Haven't seen him acting this weird in a while." Beatrice supposed he meant beyond the usual level of weird, turning to look up at Steve as he spoke.

"It's fine." She pulled the sleeves of her sweater over her fingertips. Obviously she'd have to check out the mains heating. "Everyone has their off days."

Steve shot her a slow-spreading, warm smile.

Apart from the fact that it seemed to utterly appreciate and understand her, it sent odd little tendrils spiraling around her nervous system.

Glancing up from underneath her lashes - no mean feat when Steve was only a few inches taller than her - her mouth crooked in a half smile.

They held eye contact for far longer than societally correct, and Beatrice turned back to the apartment quickly. "I'll see you in five."

He was still smiling slightly when she looked over her shoulder back at him.

"It's a date."

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: _my darlings i am so sorry asdfghjkl. but dudes seriously review mee. it would mean the world ;3**


	6. 6: Bucky

The first thing Bucky did when he entered the apartment was flick on the coffee machine.

The second thing he did was take a painkiller.

She gave him a headache.

He didn't know why.

And not a bad headache.

A headache like it hurt to be around her with someone else but he'd also rather always be by her side.

A headache like she needed protection.

But he wasn't a protector.

He was the offensive.

Steve was the defensive.

And he didn't understand what he was feeling.

Couldn't hope to.

Sometimes Bucky would have flashbacks to when he was with Steve in the city all those years ago and everything was fine.

Sometimes the Bucky from his past would help the Bucky of his future.

Sometimes he wouldn't.

Usually it was Steve who gave him the most respite.

But he didn't think Steve could help with this.

He gulped down the coffee, ignoring the way it scalded his throat.

Pain was good for conditioning, wasn't it?

Cold metal fingers ran through his hair, pushing it back from his face.

Did Beatrice like the long hair-

He cut off the thought before it could continue, padding through to his bedroom.

A shower would do him good.

The only bathroom was his en suite, and he quickly stripped down before stepping under the spray, flipping the shower on.

The pipes spat out cold water.

He didn't mind.

The muscles in his abdomen clenched inadvertently, and he tilted his head down.

He didn't think he was especially unattractive.

But he had to cover up his arm.

Maybe she didn't like his arm.

And he'd hurt her.

He ground the metal hand into a fist.

The water began to warm, and he glanced up into the spray.

Some sort of welcome distraction.

He closed his eyes as he washed.

Unbidden thoughts of her scattered across his mental landscape.

She was slim, but not in the terrifyingly breakable way.

More in the athletic way that suggested a consistent pursuit of sports.

He liked it.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and he raised a hand to touch his lips.

The cold metal of his fingertips was a startling reality, and he jerked backwards a little.

Her lips would be warm.

She would curl her arms around his neck, tangling her fingers into his hair.

Her eyes would be hot with desire.

Her kisses more so.

His hands would roam her back.

And he would be gentle.

So very gentle.

The Winter Soldier cranked into reality suddenly, blinking water out of his eyes.

For a few moments, Bucky stood there, transfixed by thoughts of her.

And then he flipped the shower to cold, folding his arms and letting it rain on down.

For the rest of his shower he distracted himself with thoughts of work.

But that barely worked.

By the time he turned off the shower, he was cold and miserable.

He towel-dried his hair roughly, tossing it up into a ponytail.

At least, he thought that was the word for it.

He shrugged on a black t-shirt and some similar pants, spritzing himself with something that Steve had given him.

It was musky and dark, not overly feminine like so many of the scents that men nowadays wore.

Giving his flat a once over, he headed into the hallway, knocking on Beatrice's door.

The sensation that filled his stomach was unfamiliar.

"Just a minute-" He heard her footsteps, light on the wood of her corridor, and a moment later, the door was thrown open.

He cleared his throat.

She was dressed in an oversized light gray sweatshirt, emblazoned with the Levi's logo in red.

He could only assume that there were shorts under there.

He still wasn't quite used to the amount of skin that women showed nowadays.

Her hair, dark from the shower, hung down her back, staining the jumper darker gray where it dripped against the fabric.

"Come in." She smiled, stepping back to hold the door open for him.

He entered, inhaling the scent of vanilla and cocoa that emitted from the space.

She shut the door quietly, following him into the open plan space. "Can I get you anything? A coffee?"

"Americano." His answer was short, and he made his way over to the window before giving himself a mental kick. "Please."

"Coming right up." A barrage of yapping cut off the end of his sentence, and two shapes streaked across the room and attached themselves to his legs.

He remembered that it was not socially acceptable to destroy everything.

Two of the most hideous looking creatures he'd seen stared up at him.

A squat, beige coloured dog with a squashed in nose was panting, little eyes rolling around in it's sockets.

Beside it, a black and white cat - if it could be called that, it had no fur - was twining around his ankle.

"Prue! Mal! Leave him alone." Beatrice scurried over, lifting up the cat with one hand and the dog with the other.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, and that was when the laughter hit him.

It was a low chuckle, rusty and deep in his throat, and he saw the change in Beatrice's eyes from concerned to amused.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like that.

"Prue... Mal?" He let the question hang there, and Beatrice obliged by waving the cat's paw.

"This is Prue. Short for Prune, because she looks like one." As if on cue, the cat let out a disgruntled huff, slipping out of Beatrice's arms and sashaying into the bedroom. "And this is Pugsy Malone."

The dog wheezed, tongue lolling out of it's mouth.

The poor thing looked like his eyes were going to fall out.

Bucky ran his hand across the pug's head, movement a little jerky.

The dog stopped panting frantically, half closed his eyes. His hind leg kicked into thin air aimlessly.

Bucky kept scratching, just as someone knocked on the door.

A flustered looking Beatrice thrust the pug into his arms, hurrying to the door. "That'll be Steve."

He took the dog, all too aware of that feeling in his chest.

Sinking.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **_**yes i know i'm bad and i'm so sorry BUT THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR FAVOURITES AND FOLLOWS**


End file.
